"It's a Mr. Bryany, sir, if I catch the name right," said Joseph.
Bryany! For twenty-four hours he had scarcely thought of Bryany, or the option either.
"Bring the telephone here," said Edward Henry.
"Hello! Bryany! Is that you?" cried Edward Henry gaily.
And then he heard the weakened voice of Mr. Bryany in his ear:
"How d'ye do, Mr. Machin. I've been after you for the better part of two days, and now I find you're staying in the same hotel as Mr. Sachs and me!"
He understood now why on the previous day the dandy introducing him to his suite had smiled a welcome at the name of Alderman Machin, and why Joseph had accepted so naturally the command to take a bath. Bryany had been talking. Bryany had been recounting his exploits as a card.
The voice of Bryany in his ear continued:
"Look here! I've got Miss Euclid here and some friends of hers. Of course she wants to see you at once. Can you come down?"
He could not come down. He would have no evening wear till the next day but one.
"I can't," said Edward Henry. "I'm not very well. But listen. All of you come up to my rooms here and have supper, will you? Suite 48."
"I'll ask the lady," said the voice of Bryany, altered now, and a few seconds later: "We're coming."
"Joseph," Edward Henry gave orders rapidly as he took off his coat and removed the pocketbook from it. "I'm ill, you understand. Anyhow, not well. Take this," handing him the coat, "and bring me the new dressing-gown out of that green cardboard box from Rollet's--I think it is. And then get the supper menu. I'm very hungry. I've had no dinner."
Within sixty seconds he sat in state, wearing a grandiose yellow dressing-gown. The change was accomplished just in time. Mr. Bryany entered, and not only Mr. Bryany, but Mr. Seven Sachs, and not only these, but the lady who had worn a red hat at lunch.
"Miss Rose Euclid," said Mr. Bryany, puffing and bending.
Once, on a short visit to London, Edward Henry had paid half a crown to be let into a certain enclosure with a very low ceiling. This enclosure was already crowded with some three hundred people, sitting and standing. Edward Henry had stood in the only unoccupied spot he could find, behind a pillar. When he had made himself as comfortable as possible by turning up his collar against the sharp winds that continually entered from the street, he had peered forward, and seen in front of this enclosure another and larger enclosure also crowded with people, but more expensive people. After a blank interval of thirty minutes a band had begun to play at an incredible distance in front of him, extinguishing the noises of traffic in the street. After another interval an oblong space, rather further off even than the band, suddenly grew bright, and Edward Henry, by curving his neck, first to one side of the pillar and then to the other, had had tantalising glimpses of the interior of a doll's drawing-room and of male and female dolls therein.